The Exodus Sagas: Book II - Of Dragons And Crowns (62 page)

Balric’s vision slowly centered again, and he could see Johnas diving and sidestepping through the mass of bestial warriors with his kris emerald pommeled blade doing its work. A slash through a hamstring here, then a duck and roll, then a slice across an ogre abdomen, followed by the prince spinning around a troll and plunging the blade deep into soft flesh. He made his way quickly and expertly to what remained of his men as they repeatedly loaded and fired their crossbows to cover their lord. The Harlian swordsman, wishing Johnas had not made it out in one piece, stood to meet the prince as the battle began to spread.

“
We leave to Valhirst!
” Johnas snapped at his men and his enslaved bodyguard. His anger at losing a negotiation
that he was about to sabotage himself
always made him quiet, yet staying here to be slaughtered by whichever menacing race emerged victorious was
less than wise he realized. He ducked as more blasts of arcane energies, black and smoldering, desecrated several of his men and their horses.

“Kill the nobles from Valhirs
t, their failed treachery shall
be collected in blood!” Salah Cam, riddled with crossbow bolts now, hovered above the
insanity of ogre and trolls that knew not why they were killing each other beyond simple instinct and hatred. “They betray you now, and so they shall in days and years to come if you do not stand together against your enemies!
I, Salah Cam
the Eternal,
now command you to take these lands from the men who would use you for their own devices!
Charge them and leave none breathing
!
”

Feeling the power of his voice, enhanced through arcane means no doubt, the volatile but weak willed ogre and troll warriors began to turn their atte
ntion to the remaining humans on
the eastern trail. The enchanting words seemed to have sway, as the giant soldiers of Avegarne and Mun Parr visualized this injured wizard as a trusted ally
, injured, victimized, and powerful
. The ogre battle cry was roared, the hissing commands of the troll queen were heard by all her kin, and the mass turned its bloodthirst toward the twenty remaining men with Balric and Johnas.

Lavress barely noticed the wolves that had caught his scent, followed by several ogre, as they climbed the hill to the west. Still engrossed in the small war that he had started, the guilt of his arrow fresh in his mind, the hunter took aim for another shot. He nearly released twice at the Prince of Valhirst but no clear path presented itself for more than the blink of an eye. He let the bowstring relax, placed the arrow
back in his animal hide quiver
and slung the bow across his back. Drawing his falcata and kukri simultaneously, the savage elf of Gualidura ran north through the forests of southern Chazzrynn. He knew that five ogre, three trolls, and at least half a dozen starved and abused wolves followed him through the night. Perhaps a hundred feet behind him and closing they were, and Lavress had little strength left. Drawing on his breathing and focus to block out the pain of
his injuries
and the muscles that resisted the exertion, the hunter of the Hedim Anah pushed on.
Snarls and howls followed, yet he did not falter in his steps. His mind thought of solace he could search out nearby. Roricdale was blocked by the mess he had created, so his only chance was to head north along the river to Southwind Keep. It was three days of hard travel, should he survive the long night ahead. The tattooed hunter, now the hunted, made for the open wilderness in hopes that his pursuers would become distracted or lose heart for the chase.
What have I done?
he thought.

“You ten men protect our trail. Balric, gather what horses
remain and lead us to Valhirst!
” Johnas sheathed his blade as he mounted one of the horses belonging to a dead soldier.

The men looked desperate, betrayed, and confused as the prince of Valhirst rode off leaving them on foot with an army of trolls and ogre bent on spilling blood. They fired into the approaching mob, as they had
been since the first arrow struck from afar. Balric did as he was asked, yet felt words strum up from his throat past
the difficulty that the dominee
ring necklace impressed upon him. “My prince, should we not
all
flee?”

“And take more risk of our pursuit? No. Those men are our insurance of a decent
length of start away from our moronic foes. A risk that their blood will satisfy
, hopefully.
Now move!
The White Spider will wage war on Salah Cam the old fashioned way, pure deceit and blessed treachery.
” Johnas kicked his steed to the east, mere feet before trolls descended into the ranks of the men ordered to remain and cover.
He smiled, knowing war would come one way or the other, just what he needed. Not to plan, not as ordered with him in charge, but war nonetheless.

Balric and eight survivors escorted the prince back toward their home
. S
ounds of wood planks shattering from the caravan echoed with the melodius screams of Valhirst soldiers who did their part in dying horribly for their master. He tried to reach for his saber, even the shortblade on his other hip, but the necklace held more power over him than his hatred could muster. Black lightning ripped into the air followed by the loud and mesmerizing words of the undying wizard, Salah cam. Neither Balric nor Johnas could make out the details, but they both knew for certain that the traitorous old man beyond the touch of the grave now had much sway over the ogre and trolls that bordered Chazzrynn. He could fuel thos
e
long burning fires of hatred that had been sitting idle
,
and whip them into a murderous force.

A force that should have been at the beck and call of Johnas
, but now was held by his house wizard
. Both men silently wondered who the archer was, who would try to assassinate the domenarch of the White Spider so far from any civilization, and how they even knew where to wait for him. His brow furrowed with paranoia, his sword thirsted for more blood, and Johnas Valhera
paced in his mind over the lives he would have to end to reach the answers he needed.
“Well, I did wish to have the scum fired up and excited about waging war. I shall still wager this day a success for the future. Balric, get us home.”

Exodus II:XV

Outskirts
of Bailey, Willborne-Harlaheim
Border

“There are those that worship and those that speak words. There are those who surrender to God and those that grovel. Then there are those who are deceived by hopes that they will strike deals with God, and for those we send our deepest prayers
,
for they are truly lost
.”
–Ja Maharrime, one of the e
leven prophets of Ladras who envisioned the coming of the floods of Agara and was crucified for heresy and blasphemy.
Altestan
,
circa 92 B.C.

Misty rain and fog dampened the view of Bailey, as did the moonless night skies of gray and ebony. Norrice and his men of Saint Erinsburg kept their steeds at a walking pace as both the horses and the men were exhausted.
The bridge over
the
Devon River had few guards who were more concerned about catching rumor of the wars in Harlaheim than actually inquiring about the troupe
’
s
business in Willborne. Beside
the awkward stares at the minotaur and the el
ven woman, the borderguard paid
little attention as to why escorts bearing the symbols of Harlaheim traveled with a decorated knight of Chazzrynn and such mixed company into their kingdom
, especially with a handful of coin to assist their negligence
. Capitan Norrice had thought of leaving Shinayne and her fellows t
here and heading back
, but something inside him pushed him to see them to Bailey and find lodging for one good and safe night
’
s rest before returning t
o whatever battle awaited them in
Saint Erinsburg. Regardless of orders, he knew that Lord Cristoff was fond of these travelers and would much appreciate the gesture.
It is what he would do if he were here
, Norrice reasoned.

Three riders approached on the dark road into Bailey, one bearing a covered lantern. The town was quiet, dismal, with as many low stone buildings as
abandoned
wooden ones, almost all with thatched roofs. Norrice looked about over the riders sent to greet them and noticed the animals that roamed and the poverty that presented itself with every glance. Poor, run down, and silent it was. He noticed the only striking monument in the whole area was to the south. Past the thousands that lived likely impoverished in this rural setting turned into a mecca of depression and strife, a lone mountainous crag of a hill loomed hundreds of feet above everything else south of the town. Lit only by the
occasional flash of lightning in the blanketing clouds or stream of escaping light from the green moon, the mountain hovered over Bailey only a few miles away.
Norrice was drawn back
from his glar
e at the ominous lone peak
to the faint aroma of old haypiles, animal dung, and the gallop of three horses closing in to meet them. He pulled the reins up and signaled for the company to hold behind him.

“Hold there
,
horseman. What brings you and yours this late into Bailey? And
whom might you be?” t
he man in the middle of the three spoke quickly, agitated, and with a heavy and rich Agarian accent. His
obvious
sons kept their left hands on the reins of their steeds and right hands on the hilts of their longswords hidden under the drapings of long raincloaks.

Norrice gauged the man speaking to be at least fifty years of age by the wrinkled skin and full beard of gray to match his thinning hair and eyebrows. The other two kept their cloaks drawn over, yet flashes of light from the ominous storm allowed him to glance that they were young enough to be his sons for certain
,
and the resemblance was definite
. The capitan of Saint Erinsburg turned to look past his men, hoping one in the company of five would assist him in the greetings as he was not accustomed to travel or diplomacy, only a mere soldier until just days ago.

“Well speak up then!
I have n
ot all night for you Harlian!” t
he old man showed his impatience and crassness as moments of silence passed.

“I am Capitan Norrice of Saint Erinsburg, here on escort from Lord Cristoff Bradswellen the Third. And you are?” Norrice heard relief on the way from several hooves in the muddy road behind him. He was nervous, not wanting to say the wrong word or introduction. He had only known other capitans, bishops, and his lord; he had never dealt with anyone other than nobility from saint Erinsburg his whole life.

“I am Marcel Keer
vinn, Lord of Bailey capitan.” h
e waited for a bow or sign of
respect from the nervous man
before him in the night, which he finally received. Lord Marcel watched as an elven woman on horseback led by a tattooed minotaur arrived by the side of the inexperienced leader of the escort. He noticed the sign of relief on Norrice’s face as pressure vanished upon the turn of his head to see them next to him. “You arrive late into my town, too late indeed.”

Shinayne bowed from the saddle
as she removed the hood of her cloak. “My lord, please excuse the hour of our arrival into Willborne, the storms have slowed our travels beyond our liking. We wish to stay only a night as our journey takes us further west into Shanador and the Misathi
Mountains. We have traveled for too many days through this unfortunate weather, would you permit us your grace and hospitality?”

“If you are traveling to Shanador, why would you not depart from Devonmir? It is a faster r
oute. And who are you, elf?” t
he Lord of Bailey knew already that there was something amiss with this group. He had seen minotaurs before, Lady
Katrina of Willborne had a red
minotaur named Faldrun
e
that guarded her at Willborne Keep. Dwarves and elves he had seen in his years also, but none as beautiful as the noble
c
reature before him now.

“I am Lady S
hinayne T’Sarrin of Kilikala.” s
he bowed again. “And you know even better than me, I am sure, that Devonmir is no place for a lady. Even with the civil unrest
and wars
in central Harlaheim, Devonm
ir is a cesspool that would stain
my noble eyes from a mere night through.
”

“Truer words could not be spoken, my lady. Yet I still have issue with so many, fifteen I count, armed men, women, and beasts arriving at this hour in stormy skies. How can I be certain of your intentions?” Lord Marcel was being coy at this point, and it showed, he revealed it with intention to the elven woman.

“
Ahh
Lord Marcel, we are but refugees from the horrendous battles that rage inside your neighboring kingdom to the east. Had we taste for bloodshed or trouble, our stay in Harlaheim would have been joyous with
no cause for departure, would it not
? Surely your lordship could find us accommodation that we would gladly offer a fine coin for.” Shinayne played coy in return, allowing her smirk to reveal across her lips and her aquamarine eyes to flash and sparkle at his. She despised old crotchety men that though
t
with their loins rather than their hearts, but the elven noble knew that the horses and the men were done in and the
weather was looking more dangerous
by the hour; they needed shelter and rest above all else.